"Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old softy, expecting I'm going to
make her believe all that rubbage about that dream,
when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that
you was over here and heard all the talk we had that
night. Tom, I don't know what is to become of a boy
that will act like that. It makes me feel so bad to think
you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a
fool of myself and never say a word."

This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness
of the morning had seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked mean and
shabby now. He hung his head and could not think
of anything to say for a moment. Then he said:

"Oh, child, you never think. You never think of
anything but your own selfishness. You could think
to come all the way over here from Jackson's Island in
the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think
to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't
ever think to pity us and save us from sorrow."

"Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't
mean to be mean. I didn't, honest. And besides, I
didn't come over here to laugh at you that night."

"It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got drownded."

"Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this
world if I could believe you ever had as good a thought
as that, but you know you never did -- and I know it,
Tom."

"Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie -- I wish I may never
stir if I didn't."

"Oh, Tom, don't lie -- don't do it. It only makes
things a hundred times worse."

"It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to
keep you from grieving -- that was all that made me
come."

"I'd give the whole world to believe that -- it would
cover up a power of sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd
run off and acted so bad. But it ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?"

"Why, you see, when you got to talking about the
funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our coming and
hiding in the church, and I couldn't somehow bear to
spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my pocket and
kept mum."

"Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning
and I was so sorry."

The words sounded like truth. The old lady could
not hide a tremor in her voice when she said:

"Kiss me again, Tom! -- and be off with you to
school, now, and don't bother me any more."

The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and
got out the ruin of a jacket which Tom had gone
pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her hand,
and said to herself:

"No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied
about it -- but it's a blessed, blessed lie, there's such a
comfort come from it. I hope the Lord -- I know the
Lord will forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness in him to tell it. But I don't want to find
out it's a lie. I won't look."

She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a
minute. Twice she put out her hand to take the
garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more
she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with
the thought: "It's a good lie -- it's a good lie -- I won't
let it grieve me." So she sought the jacket pocket. A
moment later she was reading Tom's piece of bark
through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the
boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!"